Shiny Happy Idols

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on March 6, 2026.

 Every generation likes to think that idolatry is a practice we outgrew in biblical times. After all, most of us are not melting down jewelry and building golden statues in our living rooms. Yet idolatry doesn’t require physical graven images at all. It’s about what happens when we place something—or someone—beyond accountability. 

Just keep an eye on current events, and you’ll see what happens whenever leaders are treated as untouchable simply because enough people agree with them. When loyalty to ideology becomes so strong that we excuse wrongdoing, justify cruelty, or look away from corruption, we begin to elevate human beings to a place that belongs only to God. It’s tempting, isn’t it? When someone represents what we care about, we want them to succeed. But Torah asks us to be careful about what we are really worshipping. 

Parshat Ki Tissa contains one of the most dramatic episodes in the Torah: the sin of the Golden Calf. While Moses is on Mount Sinai receiving the commandments, the people grow anxious. They ask Aaron to make them a god to lead them. Aaron gathers their gold, fashions the calf, and the people proclaim, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt.” 

When Moses descends the mountain and sees the people dancing around the idol, he shatters the tablets in anger. The covenant itself is literally and figuratively broken. Yet the story does not end there. Moses confronts the people, calls them back to accountability, and ultimately returns to the mountain to renew the covenant. 

The medieval commentator Ramban (you may also know him by his Greek-influenced name Nachmanides) suggests that the people were not trying to reject God outright. They were searching for something visible to lead them in Moses’s absence. Their mistake was not simply making something shiny—it was transferring all the authority and trust they had placed in God to something they could control. 

That impulse is alive and well today. Idolatry often looks like placing our hopes entirely in charismatic leaders, cultural figures, or even political movements themselves. When we abandon trust and reason for the shiny object or shiny person, we risk excusing behavior we would condemn in anyone else. In those moments, we stop asking moral questions. And that is when leadership becomes a golden calf. 

Torah insists that no human being stands above the law—not kings, not prophets, not leaders. The challenge of Ki Tissa is not simply to avoid idols made of gold. It is to resist the quieter forms of idolatry that appear in our own lives. 

We can admire people. We can support causes passionately. But Judaism demands something more: that we remain morally awake. To hold even those we agree with to the standards of justice, humility, and accountability. Because the moment we stop asking questions, the moment loyalty replaces conscience, we risk dancing around a golden calf of our own making. And the Torah reminds us again and again that our highest loyalty must always be to tzedek/justice and to the God who demands it. 

The Thing About Remembering

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 28, 2026.

Have you ever gone shopping and forgotten where you parked? How often do you walk into a room and can’t quite remember what you came in for? Forgetfulness can be harmless. Sometimes it’s just a sign of distraction, and it’s easy to get distracted. But there’s another kind of forgetting that is far more consequential: forgetting who we are, what we stand for, and what we owe one another. Judaism understands this deeply, because memory, in our tradition, is not merely passive nostalgia; it is moral responsibility. This Shabbat brings that truth into sharp focus as Parshat Tetzaveh coincides with Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat of remembering. 

Parshat Tetzaveh focuses heavily on ritual details like the ner tamid, the eternal flame that must burn continually, and especially the elaborate priestly garments worn by Aaron and his descendants. The Torah describes the ephod, the breastplate set with twelve stones, the robe adorned with bells and pomegranates. One verse stands out in particular: Aaron is instructed to carry the names of the children of Israel engraved on the breastplate “over his heart” whenever he enters the sanctuary. Medieval commentators note that this was not decorative symbolism, but a theological statement. Leadership means holding the people close, remembering them individually, carrying their stories and needs constantly before God. 

That message resonates powerfully with Shabbat Zachor, when we are commanded to remember what Amalek did to us: attacking the vulnerable, the stragglers, those least protected. We read this reminder on Shabbat Zachor because Jewish tradition links Amalek directly to the Purim story, where Haman, described as an Agagite, emerges as Amalek’s spiritual descendant. Amalek represents a world where people are reduced to targets, where memory and moral responsibility disappear. The priestly breastplate, by contrast, insists that every tribe, every name, matters. 

But interestingly, do you know whose name is left out of this parshah? Moses. Moses’s name is strikingly absent from this entire Torah portion of Tetzaveh. There’s a parallel with Purim here too, because which name doesn’t appear in the Megillah? God. God is never explicitly mentioned in the Book of Esther. Yet, in each case, hiddenness does not mean absence. Redemption unfolds through human courage, solidarity, and a refusal to forget one another. The holiday reminds us that even when divine presence feels obscured, our responsibility to remember and act with care remains. 

The call of this Shabbat, then, is simple, but critical. Remember who we are. Carry people in our hearts, especially those on the margins. Refuse indifference. Yes, we have the sacred garments and ritual spaces mentioned this week, but those are not the only paths to holiness. Holiness is found in the daily act of remembering fellow humans with dignity and purpose. And in that remembering, again and again, we diminish the power of Amalek and move closer to the world Purim dares us to imagine and to celebrate.

Holiness To Go

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 21, 2026.

If you’ve ever been part of a building project, a synagogue renovation, a school fundraiser, or even organizing a big family event, you know it’s rarely about the bricks or logistics alone. It’s about trust. It’s about a shared purpose. The quiet question underneath it all is, do we really believe in this enough to build it together? When the world feels fractured by ongoing wars and geopolitical instability, that question feels especially urgent. What does it mean to build something sacred together when the world around us often feels broken or unsettled? 

Parshat Terumah marks a turning point in the Torah. After revelation at Sinai, God invites the Israelites to create a physical space for holiness, the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary. The people are asked to bring gifts: gold, silver, fabrics, acacia wood, oil, and spices. These aren’t taxes or other obligations exactly; they’re offerings of the heart. The detailed instructions that follow are less about architecture than about relationship and a community partnering with God to make space for presence. 

One commentary I always find striking comes from the Ramban (Nachmanides), who teaches that the Mishkan was essentially a continuation of Sinai, a way to carry revelation with them wherever they traveled. Holiness wasn’t meant to stay on the mountain; it had to be built into daily life. 

And notice how it happens: collectively. No single person could build the Mishkan. The Torah’s repeated emphasis on contributions reminds us that sacred community emerges not from uniformity, but from shared commitment. Each person brought what they could. That message resonates now. It feels a little too easy to be tempted toward despair, but the Torah quietly insists that building together is itself a spiritual act. Community doesn’t eliminate the world’s pain, but it gives us the strength to face it without losing hope. 

So, our invitation in Terumah is both simple and challenging. Keep building. Build community even when the world feels unstable. Show up for one another. Offer what you can through your time, kindness, presence, resources, and prayer. Why? Because none of us carries the whole weight alone. 

The Mishkan was never just a structure. It was a declaration that even in uncertain times, we choose connection over fragmentation, purpose over fear, sacred partnership over going it alone. May we continue to build spaces, in our congregation, our homes, and our world, where holiness can dwell among us. 

Judaism Enters the Chat 

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 13, 2026.

On some issues, science and Torah are in agreement. Reproductive rights are one such issue. But let’s take a broader look at the portion for a second. Parshat Mishpatim moves us from the awe of Sinai into the details of daily living. It’s a collection of civil and ethical laws about damages, responsibility, workers, neighbors, and vulnerable people. And right in the middle appears a striking case: 

“When people fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined… But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life.” (Exodus 21:22–23) 

If you’re looking for the Jewish perspective on abortion, this is it; at least, this is it according to the oldest law we have. The Torah distinguishes between harm to the pregnant person and the loss of the pregnancy, setting up a legal and ethical conversation that our tradition has continued for centuries. 

The Mishnah builds directly on this distinction. In Mishnah Ohalot 7:6, we read that if a pregnancy endangers the mother’s life, intervention is required because her life takes precedence. Only once the baby has emerged do we treat both lives equally. 

It’s expressed clearly here: Judaism is deeply protective of potential life, but it does not grant a fetus the same legal status as the pregnant person. Jewish law consistently centers the health, safety, and dignity, physical and emotional, of the person carrying the pregnancy. 

That is why many Jewish voices understand supporting reproductive choice not as a rejection of tradition, but as an expression of it. Choice, in Jewish terms, often means moral agency guided by Torah values, medical wisdom, and personal conscience. 

But as clear as the Torah and Mishnah might seem, the choice of how to approach a topic like this is ours, particularly on this Shabbat, designated Repro Shabbat by the National Council of Jewish Women. So here is my invitation for all of us to do the following: lead with compassion. Make space for complexity. Resist the urge to reduce deeply personal realities into slogans. Advocate for access to care, for informed decision-making, and for communities where people facing these decisions are met with care rather than stigma. 

One thing we don’t need the Torah to tell us is that life is complicated. We know that. And sometimes what people need most is not quick judgment but thoughtful support. This Shabbat, as many Jewish communities observe Reproductive Rights Shabbat, we have a chance to approach this sensitive topic the way Judaism often does, with nuance, compassion, and a deep respect for human dignity. 

Mishpatim reminds us that Torah lives in the real world, the complicated, human world. Our task is to carry forward its core commitments, and trusting that sacred responsibility often includes the ability to choose with wisdom, support, and faith. 

Hearing the Ten Commandments Together

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on February 6, 2026.

If you were to treat the Torah like a road trip and whine that common road trip refrain of “Are we there yet?”, which parshah do you think would be “there”? Certainly, you could make an argument for somewhere much later in our narrative, but I think there’s a good case for Yitro. Mount Sinai, the Ten Commandments; it feels like a pretty big “there.”  

But there’s another reason this parshah reminds me of a noisy car ride. Fellow parents, especially, we have our fair share of noisy car rides when everyone is talking at once. Someone’s asking for a snack. Someone else is changing the music. Someone is saying, “They touched me!” And I’m just talking about the seven minutes from our house to school. 

In our family, we sometimes have to say, “Pause. Everyone, take a breath. Now let’s listen again.” 

Parshat Yitro is kind of like that moment, when the whole world pauses, quiets down, and listens. 

In this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites stand at Mount Sinai. There’s thunder, lightning, smoke, and a shofar blast so loud, it’s impossible not to listen. And then God gives the Aseret HaDibrot, the Ten Commandments. 

But before any commandments are given, something important happens. The Torah says:“Vayichan sham Yisrael neged hahar.” “And Israel camped there, opposite the mountain.” 

The rabbis noticed something interesting. It doesn’t say they camped, plural. It says Israel camped, singular. Like one heart. Like one big family. 

Before God speaks, the people learn how to stand together. 

That matters because listening is hard. Listening means not interrupting. Listening means paying attention even when it’s not your turn to talk. Listening means realizing that someone else’s voice matters too. 

Kids, the Ten Commandments aren’t just rules. They’re about how we treat each other: 

  • Respect your parents. 
  • Don’t hurt people. 
  • Don’t take what isn’t yours. 
  • Tell the truth. 

And parents, the commandments weren’t given only to adults. The entire people stood there. Every age. Every stage. Judaism has always believed that children belong at the center of the sacred moment. 

So here’s our Sinai challenge for the week: 

Kids: 
Before you speak, try listening just a little longer. You might learn something new. 

Parents: 
Pause long enough to really hear your children, not just their words, but what they’re trying to say underneath. 

And all of us: 
Let’s practice being a community that listens, at the dinner table, in the car, at school, and right here in synagogue. 

Because Torah doesn’t just come from the mountain. It happens when we quiet ourselves enough to hear one another.